


Labyrinth

by inspiresimagine



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Indiana Jones References, Jewish Frank Castle, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Sharing a Bed, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, set mid season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 15:58:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17625389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inspiresimagine/pseuds/inspiresimagine
Summary: You know that in a few hours, when the nightmares start either in Frank’s head or outside it, this little room of yours won’t be so peaceful. But you both need the rest, so you take the good when you can get it, and you wait for the inevitable.Or, the one where you're tired, Frank is tired, and everyone just needs to go to sleep.





	Labyrinth

**Author's Note:**

> the song that accompanies this, in my head, is "NFWMB" by hozier.

It’s dark when you get to bed. You can just see the outline of Frank’s body, one arm outstretched and beckoning towards a figure unseen. Pausing at the doorway of your bedroom, you wait for your eyes to adjust as you scrutinize the man lying prone on beneath your quilt. 

You take two steps inward and Frank shifts, pushing the blanket downwards. Every one of his jagged angles stands out in violent relief, the darkness dipping into crevices of recent lacerations and pooling in bruises. The whites of his eyes are stark ghosts in comparison. You force a smile. “Hey. I didn’t think you were up.”

“I’m always up.” Frank settles back onto the pillows. 

Letting out a breath, you swing your legs onto the bed and drop your head into your hands. Your turned back doesn’t fool Frank, though, and his voice is a low rumble behind you. “What’s the problem?”

“Yeah, sorry,” you say evasively, swallowing hard and turning back to him as you pull over a little bit of blanket for yourself. “Just… had a long day.”

Frank welcomes you into the crevice of his arm. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply, eyes beginning to close of their own accord. 

He snorts. “Bullshit.”

“It  _ has  _ been a long day, believe it or not,” you say, hating how thin your voice sounds. You turn in towards his shoulder to study his cut-up face, a stitched wound on his neck disappearing into the grey henley he wears. 

Dropping a kiss on the top of your head, you know he believes it. It’s been a long day for both of you. “Mm.” You reach up a hand to run your fingers over the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck, soft and prickly at once. Frank chuckles and you can feel the warmth in your chest. “You’re not off the hook, y’know.”

A smile nudges the corners of your mouth as he allows the touch. It has taken you months to gain permission to do this. All the while, exhaustion floats towards in on a sugar-soft cloud and you close your eyes again. “What was I  _ on _ the hook for, Frank?”

He brushes your cheek and tucks a stray hair behind your ear. “Tell me what’s wrong, eh?” You press your nose into his chest instead, breathing him in. “Eh?” says Frank again, jostling your shoulder. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

You deflate, exhaling a shaky breath and flopping down on your back. Frank’s arm encircles your waist and you blink back tears again, spotting the fresh wounds there. “I… I am  _ worried _ ,” you whisper, the tiniest bit of a crack betraying the depth of your fears. “And, oh, God, I’m angry.” 

Frank shifts from beside you, and you can feel his torso tense with the effort of it. “Angry, huh?”

“With Billy,” you clarify, and his name is like a knife on your tongue. Your voice is low, nearly a growl, and the intensity it carries makes you shiver. You didn’t know you had it in you to fume like that until you begin. “With what he did to you.” One finger traces around a recent stab wound and you imagine wringing Billy Russo’s throat with too much pleasure. “It’s not fair, Frank, he doesn’t  _ get  _ to do that.”

“Life ain’t fair, darlin’,” he murmurs, one calloused hand rubbing circles into your shoulder. “Life ain’t fair.”

“He doesn’t fucking  _ get to -”  _ you cry again, and your voice shatters. You hate it, the weeping, but the tears come regardless. It’s all you can think about, Billy’s nonsense righteousness, his stupid victim complex and his rubbish plan. But it’s all you can conceptualise, and this is all you can say. “He doesn’t get to do that; it’s not  _ fair.”  _

Frank closes his eyes. “I know.”

You bury your head in the expanse of his broad chest, and his arms come up to hold you, roaming over the muscle of your back and the side of your soft stomach. With an inhale you pull yourself together, losing yourself in the momentum of being here. The comforting smell of Frank Castle fills your nose, your lungs, your whole body. 

He smells like shaving cream and aftershave and whatever deodorant you can get your hands on. There’s a scent of copper that clings to him. You know it’s blood but you don’t care. It’s comforting. Gentle. There is danger in his brow and a graveyard written into the cracks of his palm, but in this moment you can’t imagine Frank hurting anyone. 

You exhale.

“Feelin’ better?” Frank asks gruffly, after you’ve taken a minute to calm down. You pull away to face him, eyes darting back and forth as you take in the interlocking web of cuts on his cheeks, one slicing right across his nose. 

You nod, ridding yourself of the lump in your throat. “Yeah.”

Then you lean in, pressing your forehead to his, and raise your lips to kiss the tip of his nose. A laugh rumbles in the bottom of Frank’s throat and he pulls away. “What’re you doing?” 

Suddenly sheepish, you force the silly smile from your lips and clear your throat. “Nothing, I -” Your whole face is hot. “I mean, I’ll -”

“Hey, don’t stop,” he protests, and you can feel the amusement vibrate in his chest. He’s making fun of you. “‘m not criticising, I, uh, - I just wanted to see what you were up to, y’know?”

“See if you were reading the situation right?” you counter, and honest-to-God can’t help the giggle that dissolves like carbonation in your words.

“Some’n like that,” says Frank, and you lean in to kiss him again, spotting his first real smile of the night. You cup his face in your hands, pressing your lips to the bridge of his nose, then the crease of his brow. 

“Am I making it better?” you ask, unable to take yourself seriously as your laughter only rises. All that anger is being pulled apart, changed like forms of energy, filling a central pool of giddiness that rests in your sternum. 

“Mm?” he grunts, eyes fluttering open. They’re dark and wide and aimed right at you. 

“Making it better,” you repeat, hands making their way to his shoulders. “You know, like in that scene in the Indiana Jones movie. Um, _Raiders of the Lost Ark.”_

Frank props himself up on one elbow and raises a brow.  _ “That’s  _ what you’re thinking about, huh?”

“You’re not?” You take one of his hands between both of your own. “You know, and Indy’s all hurt, and Marion - that’s the girl - Marion is looking at herself in the mirror and she flips the mirror and hits him smack in the head. It’s around that part in the movie.” 

Grumbling something unintelligible, Frank presses a kiss to your forehead and brushes away baby hairs with the pads of two fingers. “You gonna beat me up, then? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No, I’m talking about the bit right after that, where Marion asks him where he’s hurt, and she kisses it better.” Your gaze flickers over Frank’s patchwork arms, more stitches than clean flesh. “And Indiana… he just falls asleep.”

Frank’s voice goes low, throaty. “Mm.”

“Always was one of my favorite movies,” you mumble, twisting and turning as you try to get comfortable. “That scene, ‘specially. It’s sweet.”

He sounds distant when he responds. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, yawning. Frank slings an arm over your middle and you tug at his hand, twining your fingers together. “You know, you remind me of him.”

You’re rewarded with one burst of a chuckle. “Oh yeah?”

Sleep creeps in on you again. “Yeah.” You click your tongue. “My two favorite white men whose jobs are legal in about zero senses of the word.”

“Hey now,” Frank says, and the buzz of his laughter fills you up. You laugh too, unable to stop it from fizzling into the night air. 

“You know I’m right.” 

“Yeah, well.” He leans forward and kisses your neck, the back of your ear. “You complainin’?” 

“Most certainly not,” you hum, holding his hand just a bit tighter.

Frank mumbles something gravelly against your hair. “That’s what I thought.” 

You begin to drift, thoughts soaring away from the little bed with the surprisingly soft quilt. God, you need to sleep. 

But before exhaustion overcomes you entirely, you pat Frank’s hand, struck with the type of idea that only occurs moments before sleeping. “Frank.”

Frank groans, turning his head. “Wh…”

You speak through a thick tongue, eyes still closed. “Do we… do we have candles for Shabbat?” 

He’s quiet for a moment, then: “What day is it?” he grunts, sniffing once. 

“Uh…” You have to think on it, you’re so tired. “Wednesday.” 

“We’ll have to get some tomorrow, then,” he says, pulling you close. You grumble but you’re already using him as a pillow. “Not thinkin’ about that right now.”

Murmuring nonsense words of agreement, you just let yourself be held. Frank’s breathing slows and your eyes shut. It’s nice. “M’kay.”

You know that in a few hours, when the nightmares start either in Frank’s head or outside it, this little room of yours won’t be so peaceful. But you both need the rest, so you take the good when you can get it, and you wait for the inevitable. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are very much appreciated. :) if you enjoyed, come find me on tumblr @inspiresimagine. I'm always up for conversations, asks, etc.!


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